


Successions

by thegildedmagpie



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Family Feels, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Nirnaeth Arnoediad, Preparation For Burial, War, battlefield promotions, brief descriptions of fatal injuries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-18
Updated: 2015-11-18
Packaged: 2018-05-02 07:21:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5239616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegildedmagpie/pseuds/thegildedmagpie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the worst slaughter of the Nirnaeth Arnoediad, while Morgoth prepares for the final assault that will crush the Noldor’s hopes of resistance, Maedhros and Maglor find their way back to help Turgon mourn his fallen brother.  But politics wait for no king.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Successions

**Author's Note:**

> Turgon speaks sometimes in absurd compound sentences; also, I write him as blonde. (Ted Nasmith painted him that way, too.)

-

He'd noticed Maglor's beauty before, as everyone had, but it had been a casual noticing. In Valinor, Maglor had been favored of Estë, which, as Turgon recalled, had made everyone a little more comfortable. More comfortable both with the unexpected glory found in the joining of wild Fëanor and plain but talented Nerdanel – Maedhros' looks were rare even as a child, but Maglor's subtle beauty was breathtaking from adolescence on, and he startled people sometimes with a casual glance – and more comfortable with the place of Fëanor's second son in the easy categories that helped everyone cope with the many offspring of the strange, fey eldest son of Finwë. Maedhros was lordly, Curufin excelled in Fëanor's craft, Celegorm was a companion of Oromë – and now the indefinable Maglor was Estë's chosen, the rightful place of the fairest one. A lovely, harp-bearing attendant of the garden of dreams. Yes, of course. That defined him, helped make him, and in turn his family, easier to grasp.

Turgon, on the other hand, had been ordinary enough – Fingolfin's middle child, born many years after the first and finest. Yes, Ulmo seemed at times to love him particularly well, but it may not have signified much; Ulmo regarded all the firstborn of Eru with a wholeness of love that seemed unfathomable. Well. There it was. Could anyone reach the bottommost depths of the love of Ulmo, the one Vala who had never, never abandoned them?

Had they found their way to the deepest end of his affection today? As Morgoth watched them tremble on the plain, gathering his forces back from the slaughter to turn them after prisoners among the shattered ranks, did Ulmo turn his eyes from them?

But regardless, in Valinor, Turgon had been a companion of Ulmo, and Maglor greatly favored by Estë, and so when their paths crossed, it had usually been as an excuse for their eldest brothers to be together. Or, sometimes, the sharing of a quick, wickedly amused glance, when their parents or the others of the Noldor had wondered aloud where Fëanor's heir or Fingolfin's heir could possibly be so late on the morning after a feast-day – mornings when Turgon and Maglor were the only ones who knew the answer, or, later, when the asker was the only one who didn't.

Strange, then, that Turgon found his eyes dwelling on Maglor's hair, black as a river of night and so silken-fine it was nearly impossible to braid, now when it was tangled and dulled by battle-dust; that he found himself staring at Maglor's face, as finely-chiseled as one of his mother's lost masterpieces, now when it was spotted with the blood of Turgon's only brother.

Graceful white fingers took especial care in arranging the cloth around Fingon's stilled arms – cloth taken from the tattered banner of Fingolfin's kin, that the High King of the Noldor might lie in something that was at least somewhat unstained by blood and smoke – the folds falling gracefully around his body to give the illusion that it might not have been so badly burned. About the angry weals on his face, Maglor had not been able to do much; he had bathed the wound for long minutes, long past when he'd coaxed the dark hair out of the wound and out of Fingon's set mouth, perhaps hoping that the swelling might decrease even though the wounded was now past caring. Still, Maglor had kindly arrayed the King so that the burnt cheek faced away from the door of the half-broken tent, in whose triangular cavern of fragile cloth the two eldest sons of Fëanor and of Fingolfin had finally sought their brief refuge.

Why was so much of Fingon's face unmarred? Turgon wondered. He must have tried instinctively to shield it at the last. Touched by the flame, knowing himself defeated, had Fingon raised his left arm to defend his eyes from the Balrog's fires, or had he been lying on his left by then, as they'd found him, and been already nearly dead of the tortuous burns on his legs and chest by the time …

Turgon felt another sob shake him, and he swallowed it ruthlessly, but Maglor must have heard. His extraordinary eyes raised from their task of restoring Fingon's braids to a neater arrangement that hid the singed ends. Reaching across the few feet of distance between them, he brushed his string-toughened fingers softly over the back of Turgon's unresisting hand. But then his eyes dropped, the corners of them drawing tight with pain as he returned to his task. Had he, the conscience of those sons of Fëanor who could still hear such a voice, remembered his part in causing this? Or had he only recalled that, though he'd singlehandedly slain Uldor the traitor, his valor had been insufficient to save the one in whose place his own brother would have gladly died?

That brother lay against Turgon's shoulder, still nearly unconscious in his grief, his tears drenching the surcoat over Turgon's armor – cloth which had once been dyed a clear blue. Turgon wasn't sure he had ever been so close to Maedhros in his life – certainly not since their abandonment before the Helcaraxë. But they'd grieved for the High King together, for hours unnumbered while Morgoth gloated in the pause of his wrath, and now Turgon's hair, as pale as linden honey, was commingled with Maedhros' coppery red so thoroughly that it seemed a lifetime's task to separate them.

Turgon was dully aware of Maedhros' armor digging a furrow in his ribs as Maglor twisted sun-colored cords in place at the ends of Fingon's braids, his hands as deft upon the High King's hair as they were upon the harp. But he bore no harp now. He might have brought the instrument with him for the planned celebration of their victory – Maedhros had cherished a flaring hope that this would be the hour of Morgoth's defeat. But it would be abandoned now that the brothers had taken an incalculably dangerous path back from their rout into Ossiriand, abandoning Caranthir and Celegorm to their own road, to find their kinsmen the son of Fingolfin where their attack from the west had met with such abysmal failure.

Had Turgon thought he had not much noticed Maglor's looks back then, in Valinor? He must have done, for Turgon had become used to Maglor with his harp – still found the sight of Maglor not bearing the instrument of his craft as subtly wrong as it would have been to see Maeglin unmarked by soot after a day when others had been idle … or Idril wearing shoes when she didn't have to.

Maglor, still kneeling, coaxed Fingon's cold hands to grasp his bow. His sword was already at his side, its sheath offering a crackling whisper of burnt leather as it encountered the edge of the sun-blazoned shield which Maglor lay tenderly over the fallen king's breast.

Even as he finished, the portal was drawn open and Turgon looked up into the eyes of the men who, ten years since, he'd permitted to leave Gondolin knowing where the city stood. Huor's and Húrin's eyes took in the two sons of Fëanor, the fallen Fingon, and returned to Turgon. “High King Turgon,” Huor began –

If Maedhros hadn't still been heavy upon him, Turgon might have risen up and struck the man. His reaction must have shown on his usually-mild face, because Huor came to an abrupt halt. Turgon reassembled his calm one fragment at a time and spoke: “I think it early to call me by that title while my brother lies dead before me.”

Húrin, elder and ever better-spoken than his hasty brother, spoke with his urgency tempered by kindness. “My lord, I beg of you, look and see that there is no time. In the High King's name we must make haste to plan how we shall salvage something of what he fought for.”

Maglor spoke quietly. “I will stay with him for as long as I can.”

“There is no time for a burial,” Huor said desperately.

“I will stay,” Maglor repeated, still on his knees beside Fingon, and Turgon took his meaning – no cairn would rise high above Fingon, who most deserved a monument, nor could he be safely borne away to lie with their father, but Maglor had seen to it that what respect they could would be paid. And Maglor had tended this beloved one while Turgon and Maedhros had no space in their minds or hearts for anything but grief; he needed what time remained to them for grieving of his own.

So Turgon struggled to his feet, lurching as he dragged upward on a strap of Maedhros' battered armor. Had Maglor assisted him in putting it on, these four horrible days since, as was a younger brother's place? Turgon had not been there in time to aid Fingon in making ready for battle. He would never have a chance to aid him thus again.

Maedhros ran a hand over his eyes, smearing soot across his face, and took his own weight after a moment, shaking red hair back, straightening his spine to deal with the matter at hand. He spared Maglor only a glance as they left the half-fallen tent; perhaps he was stalwart enough to be delaying his fear, or perhaps he had already mourned for Maglor in his heart before they found each other here in the battle's lull. Many, perhaps, would have thought that Maglor's fate didn't matter to Maedhros. Turgon knew them better.

The tent fell closed behind them as they fell into step with the captains of the Edain. “It was Gwindor they wanted,” Húrin said with the casual tone of near-despair as they began to cross blasted earth. “I would not like to share his fate now.”

“What he wanted was to leave us unable to threaten him, and Gwindor will not be a pretty enough toy to distract Morgoth long,” Maedhros bitterly said. “And had Gwindor obeyed orders, we might still have enough to hope to meet him.”

“It will be soon that he turns his attention back to us,” Húrin said quietly. “High King Turgon, I – ”

“I do not know if I hold that name,” Turgon interrupted. He looked to Maedhros.

“Do you think I've forgotten the promise I made or the debt I owed him or the love I bear him merely because he lies slain?” Maedhros' voice was sharp.

Turgon held his eyes. Once, near-freezing on the plain that had become a crevasse where Elenwë had fallen, he'd sharply shoved away Fingon's hand from the infant whimpering in his arms, had heard the intake of breath as Fingon, still aching from a deeper betrayal than Fëanor's treachery, had retreated from Turgon's more immediate pain. Now he said to Maedhros, “I do not think that. I ask your forgiveness for my careless words.”

Húrin and Huor looked at each other – they knew the rarity of such a sentiment spoken to a son of Fëanor. Maedhros did not acknowledge Turgon's words, but carried on with less sharpness. “Who else can lead the Noldor? Fingon had no child and the kingship passes next to you. You at least have preserved some of our people's work.”

“I have no heir but Maeglin,” Turgon pointed out a little desperately. He didn't need to explain that, however much he loved his sister's son, the child of an elf who had kept company with the Dwarves and vocally hated the Noldor might have trouble extending his authority beyond Tumladen if he didn't have the Fëanorians' support.

“Does it matter?” Maedhros snapped. “Would you _prefer_ I recant my abdication?” Everyone present listed the remaining sons of Fëanor in his head. Everyone present found Maeglin slightly superior. And everyone present wondered if there would be any stronghold of the Noldor but Gondolin by morning.

Turgon inclined his head a little, accepting the words like a live weight laid on his shoulders. It would have been traditional for him to retrieve the circlet his brother had worn, a physical symbol of the passage of responsibility from the elder brother to the younger, but everything in him was sickened by the concept.

“This is why you must go,” Húrin insisted a little desperately, speaking over Turgon's brooding. “My lord – High King Turgon – you looked to the Eagles to preserve the secret of your city, you brought oaths from my brother and I of our secrecy that we keep faithfully, and unless you make ready to go now that secret will be forever ravished. My brother and I have sons who will carry on our legacy. You have none. You must preserve what remains of your people by bringing them away – what will be left of the Noldor if you fall here? I beg of you, Turgon, _please_ go.”

Turgon fought the urge to wrap his arms around himself and shiver. He was to make the decision to abandon the two young Edain who had once begged him for sanctuary – not to mention all their people, and all the dead of his own? For an insane moment he wished Maedhros greedier.

He turned toward the place where those Noldor who remained were dispiritedly gathered, anxiously awaiting the resumption of attack or the fall of the night, and his eyes landed on Maeglin.

Maeglin, who was standing near enough to hear, just as he always did, but who had gone unnoticed by the two Edain in their planning and the two Noldor in their grief.

Maeglin, who had been named regent of Gondolin in Turgon's absence and was meant to be seeing to the business of the city while it waited for its king to return. Who was instead standing right here.

“Please, Maeglin son of Aredhel,” said Turgon, dully formal, “please, tell me that you have left someone to guard Gondolin in your deserted place.” Then a sharp panic gripped his heart with fingers icier than the low burn of his grief. “Say not that the city – ”

Maeglin was shaking his head before Turgon spoke, coal-black eyes flickering below lowered lashes from Turgon's face to Maedhros' unreadable countenance to the two startled men. Of course, he'd seen the king's fear as soon as it occurred. “Gondolin lies safe under the lady Idril's command.” Then, with the not-too-amicable orator's tone that had made others take instant notice of his words since shortly after his homecoming, “The arrangement of the weaponsmiths' preparations – ”

“I don't care,” Turgon cut him off, the disbelieving anger at Maeglin's disobedience a welcome relief from the agony of remembering Fingon's tortured stillness. Maeglin's eyes widened a fraction, then narrowed as the boy drew himself tall and stoic. “My daughter relieved your command. Good. Now, since you are here, go and make use of yourself in ordering the smiths; we must abandon all but weapons and make ready for retreat.”

Maeglin nodded, almost a bow, and turned to go, his black cloak catching on a smoke-laden breeze which was already beginning to reek of the corrupted dead.

Turgon tried to find words to call after Maeglin that he knew his heir would not have abandoned the city, that he'd spoken in haste, but Maeglin's strides were quick and decisive and had carried him out of earshot by the time he could organize a phrase. Perhaps it was for the best; Turgon found himself too incensed to speak the words of apology he had offered to Maedhros, who if anything deserved them less. How could Maeglin bring himself here, increasing the number of those Turgon loved who were in impossible danger?

He turned back to Maedhros, still tear-streaked but back to the customary authoritative readiness, and his mind moved on to seeking any words of comfort that would ease his pain. This search was just as fruitless. There had been no words to comfort Turgon after the loss of Elenwë, so he knew none to give to Maedhros – not from the depth of his own mourning, and not through the urgency to know how many friends he himself had lost in the past four days, a drive he'd stifled ruthlessly as he went numbly about the duties of a bereaved brother and a defeated king. Seeing Maeglin had brought that drive into his throat again like bile.

“What must we do?” he asked Húrin.

“Go,” answered Húrin, “and trust us to guard your retreat so long as ever we may,” then surprised Turgon with stepping forward to place a hand on his shoulder. Turgon looked up into Húrin's face – he hadn't had to look up at the man when he'd left Gondolin – and returned his embrace.

Huor only took his hand and pressed it: an unambiguous farewell. But he said, “Hope is not dead for us. From you and from me a new star will arise.” Turgon had not much of the gift of foresight, but he had been beloved by Ulmo long enough to know the ring of prophecy, and he pressed Huor's hand all the harder as he committed it to memory. “Now you _must_ take your people to safety.”

Turgon didn't object to being told his duty. Instead he turned, not looking back at the two doomed captains who had once known his hospitality, and started down the hill after Maeglin, aiming for the temporary works set up by the metalsmiths and armorers and fletchers whose skilled hands had equipped their ill-fated charge. Maedhros walked close alongside him – unwilling, perhaps, to return to Fingon's body just yet, or intent on allowing Maglor a little more time to himself, or driven to see the command he'd declined carried out as Turgon took their shared people back to their secret home.

To those he saw, Turgon imparted the news that they would now assemble for the journey back to Gondolin. Maedhros received a few suspicious glances – there were those who blamed him for the disaster that had become of their plans, still unknowing of the treachery which had undercut Maedhros' leadership. Still he walked at Turgon's side, silent company as the king confirmed their failure to his captains. Presently, he said, “I will bear the news and the orders to follow you to Fingon's captains.”

“I will be grateful for the speed it gives us,” said Turgon. He didn't quite dare reach for Maedhros' shoulders as Húrin had done to him. He wished, suddenly, that he'd said a better farewell to Maglor. He wished impossibly to lament some of his grief in Ulmo's arms. He wished he'd arrived a little earlier, that he and Fingon might have spoken one last time.

Maedhros bowed more respectfully than Maeglin had done, then departed, his steps sure over uneven ground and belying the anguish that Turgon had seen threatening behind his eyes.

They had come to the edge of the weaponsmiths' makeshift works, which was being disassembled in haste. Maeglin didn't speak a word to him then; nor did he do so as he stalked to his rightful place at Turgon's side to take up the long, mournful march south to Gondolin. Turgon said nothing to Maeglin, either. His mind was occupied with numbering the force behind him – tragically reduced from those who had come northward with him, even with the addition of many of Fingon's dispirited people – and with bitter mourning for his brother, and with recalling the hours he'd spent suspended in timeless agony at Maedhros' side while Maglor did what little he could to pay proper respects to the High King of the Noldor, greatest among the defeated dead, the three of them sometime friends and sometime enemies reunited in the depth of their grief.


End file.
